


Fever

by Cecilia (ceciliaregent)



Series: Porphyry [1]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M, Vampires, a few vampire-related consent issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 08:56:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceciliaregent/pseuds/Cecilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anna: I just asked [redacted] over chat if blood play is okay w/her in this notfic. She’s like. UM ANNA. YOU’RE TELLING ME EROTIC VAMPIRE FIC.</p><p>Me: @anna_unfolding you know, I would read an erotic vampire Tim/Buster story, but I don't know who is the vampire?</p><p>Anna: OH LORD</p><p>Me: @anna_unfolding I can see a good case in either direction, see</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Buster: 2007

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anna_unfolding](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anna_unfolding/gifts), [sophiahelix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiahelix/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Anna and Sophia! May fandom always contain lots of people who understand clearly that baseball players are all just dying to drink each other's blood.

_May 11, 2007: Georgia_

Buster's been lying on his couch for a while, shirt rucked up, scratching his stomach, ESPN on the big screen, and wondering if he should go out to eat, or if he can wait a day or two, when it happens. He doesn't even know what it is, at first -- he just finds himself sitting straight up, feet swinging off the couch. His vision shivers, red-tinged, and his first conscious thought is: _danger_.

There's nothing outside, he'd know if there were, though he goes to the window, carefully sliding the blind aside half a centimeter, and checks anyway. But there's no reason for anyone to come round; he's hardly shown his face in public since he retired from the Braves, fifteen years ago. He's been careful, quiet, kept his head low, slept a lot, taken up watching hockey out of sheer boredom. Not a thing a hunter could object to.

His fangs _ache_ ; he hasn't felt that in decades, not since he was young, cheeks always hollow with hunger.

He wills his pounding heart to slow, walks back to the couch and sits down. "Everything's fine," he says out loud, sternly, and although it's almost impossible to make this happen if they don't want to, finally he calms his breathing enough that he can force his fangs back into place, neatly hidden in their pockets inside his gums. _That's good, that's better_. He makes himself visualize the anatomy book he'd been given, right after the change; he'd studied it every day for a week, fascinated by what was happening to him.

He should find that book. This isn't normal, and he should call --

When he opens his eyes, there's a boy on the screen.

 _STOP_ , Buster thinks, the whole force of his will directed at his fangs. There's a sharp stab of pain as they push back, but he clamps down and they subside. He can feel them, though, sluggish and resentful, as he cautiously looks back at the television.

He's a pitcher. Lanky, all elbows, white uniform pants sagging off his hips, black socks accenting his spindly calves and a shock of thick black hair clinging to his neck. Buster forces his eyes away. His face -- yes, he's young, maybe as young as he'd looked at first glance, the full curve of his cheeks, the patchy, hectic red over his sallow skin. He's squinting as he peers in to the catcher, but when he's got the sign and the camera zooms in to his face as he comes set, his eyes are big and dark and focused, his lips peeling back off snaggled teeth that are nothing like Buster's own, straight and white and gleaming.

 _San Francisco_ , he thinks, idly, as he watches the boy twist and wind and throw, watches the pitch burn towards the plate. It'll take a while; he'll have to do a year of college at least before he can enter the draft, and a little time in the minors. Now that he knows what's going on, it doesn't really matter, and he lets his fangs go ahead and slip free as he settles back to watch the rest of the game, one hand drifting up to where his pulse should be, one drifting down into the waistband of his jeans.

He was right the first time. This _is_ going to be dangerous.


	2. Tim

_July 1, 2010: Colorado_

Tim wakes up gasping, cold sweat standing out on his arms. 

It's always hard for him to breathe in Colorado, and he's glad he doesn't pitch until tomorrow. A little time to acclimate. A little time to shake off the leftovers of this dream.

The sun's not even up yet, but he's not going back to sleep now. His mouth is dry; he licks his lips as he shoves the covers back, gets up and pads to the window, curling his toes into the plush carpet. He's always liked the view from the team hotel -- it's one of the best things about playing the Rockies -- and even now, in the dim grey light, it's good to see the mountains. 

Tim yawns, twisting a hand in the heavy drape and leaning into it. He can't remember being awake this early here before, and he can barely see the snowcaps. There's a white mist wreathing them, and it has to be a trick of the light, or just that he's not seeing straight, not fully awake yet, but Tim could swear it's rolling all the way down to the hotel, the big empty grassy area that's right outside his window, thin tendrils swirling towards him, swirling _up_ \-- no. When he shakes his head, blinks, there's nothing there. It was just the dream.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks as he runs water into a glass in the bathroom. _Fuck_. He'd been hoping that getting away from home, sleeping in a new bed, would help, but it had been just as fucking bad, feeling himself pressed back into the plush hotel mattress instead of his own, feeling Posey's hand clamp down on his wrist.

 _Posey._ Tim looks in the mirror, then quickly away, and goes back out to the room, to the window. The light's stronger now, and it's good to see the mist starting to burn away; it makes him feel more awake, lets him shove aside some of the weird feeling lingering in the pit of his stomach. He's got to figure this out, got to get the guy out of his head; he's ok when he's throwing to Bengie or even Eli, but the rest of the time, even when Posey's nowhere in sight, it's like he's always in the corner of Tim's vision, and for some reason he's always in home whites, bright, his dark blond hair gleaming, and Tim can hardly pay attention to whatever he's supposed to be doing. And the dream is worse, Posey leaning in, running a finger down his cheek, his neck. Sometimes more. Those are worse, when he wakes up drenched in more than sweat, and when he gets to the park on those days he can hardly meet anyone's eyes, showers alone, as if somehow they'd _know_. 

There's starting to be noise in the hallway outside his door, early risers stirring for breakfast, and it's not ok for him to spend more time on this. He's got to worry about the Rockies instead of about Posey, worry about his curve, which hasn't been sharp, and his split, which never breaks right in the dry air, instead of about how he'll make it through the next two years. He slaps his own face, light, and takes a few breaths. OK. OK. Breakfast. 

Two hours later, he's getting ready to head out to the park when he gets a text from Bengie. And seven hours after that, he's sitting against the back wall of the Colorado bench, hands knotted in his warmup jacket, watching Posey's pale, elegant fingers flash sign between his legs for Madison, and unable, though he tries as hard as he can, to look away.


	3. Sandoval

_September 30, 2010: San Francisco_

"Fuck you," Burrell says, and the tone's friendly enough, but Pablo feels the hair on the back of his neck lift, as if there were a breeze in the dead air of the clubhouse. Casilla shifts next to him, getting a little closer, but screw that. They're not at home now, and fucking _vampiros_ don't run the show here. Pablo clears his throat.

"So it's not you?" he asks, trying to sound firm, and like he's a real _cazadora_ , an enforcer, a hunter, one of the tough guys like his uncle's friend who'd made sure the bloodsuckers only took what people wanted to give, in exchange for money or food or protection, and no more. Pablo had done it once, right before he'd signed; he'd needed a new mitt, the tenth-hand one he'd been using falling to shreds, and he'd picked out the prettiest of all the women who came through the alleys sometimes, watching the boys play their dead serious game, and offered her a deal. _Mira_ , it had been hot; not his first time, but the first time he'd seen what the fuss was about. He'd had the mitt the next day, and his mother had pressed her lips together, but she hadn't said anything.

"How long have I been in the major leagues?" Burrell says. He doesn't wait for them to say anything. "A fucking long time. Long enough that I'm gonna have to get out soon before it gets fucking noticeable. And in all that time have I ever sucked a teammate?"

He stares at them, eyebrows raised, until Casilla says "No?"

"No, I have fucking not," Burrell says. "Because it's bad for business, and because I'd have been fucking caught, since as you can see any idiot can spot the signs."

Pablo's starting to get as offended as Burrell looks. First of all, it had not been so fucking easy to see. Whoever's doing it, if it isn't Burrell, isn't making a mess, or hadn't been before two nights ago. Tim's been a little pale, and four or five times this month he's picked Pablo's gatorade bottle up and drained it without asking or even noticing. But his neck's been clean, or at least clean enough, and his pitching, the last month, has been on fire. How would they have known?

"Look," he says to Burrell, "If he turns up with a bruise like that again, it's gonna be more than us who sees it." He taps his neck, right where she'd bit, a decade ago, just up under the ear, right where yesterday in the showers Tim's pale skin had showed florid, two dark spots in the middle of a purpling riot. His hair hid it, mostly, and today when they'd checked, Casilla distracting Tim while Pablo got in close to look, it was mostly healed; they always did, fast. 

Burrell rolls his eyes. "I'll take care of it," he says. "Timmy's fine, quit worrying."

"So if it's not you, who is it anyway?," Casilla asks.

Burrell grins suddenly, sunny and bright, the way their smiles always are. "Nah, find out for yourselves," he says. He sounds amused, and the room seems to lighten along with his mood. _Fucking_ vampiros, Pablo thinks, for the second time in two minutes. Always got to be smarter than everyone else. But there's nothing really wrong with it, as long as Tim knows what he's doing. And as long as the bloodsuckers know they're being watched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Casilla's from the DR, and Pablo is from Venezuela, but AFAIK they're the two on the 2010 team from the roughest neighborhoods, and they're also both friends with Tim, so more likely to notice something's up with him. According to some "Buffy in spanish" website I found, a _cazadora_ is a slayer. Research!
> 
> Burrell as the offended red-herring vampire is totally Sophia's idea :-)


	4. Buster: 2010

_November 1, 2010: Texas_

Buster can smell Tim clear across the clubhouse -- that's true all the time, of course, but especially now, Tim's adrenaline still pumping, heating his blood. There's champagne, too, and beer, soap and deodorant and sweat, Murph's laundry detergent and the chemical scent of the synthetic fibers in his clothes, his cap, the rubber of his shower shoes. But mostly blood.

He'd had a mouthful last night, late, just before Tim left the bar, and even though on game days he usually goes out and finds someone else, because a solid three hours of catching needs energy and he can't, he won't take much from Tim with the season still in the balance, today he hadn't. So there's still the faint taste of Tim in the back of his mouth, still the faint buzz of him everywhere in Buster's body, and he holds the beer someone shoved in his hand, but he doesn't drink it.

No matter what Burrell and Bonds and Aaron think, Buster's been pretty goddamn good, considering. It took him three years to get from his couch in Georgia to that alley in San Francisco, two months ago, and in that whole time he'd watched and waited and never blown his cover, not even the first time he'd met Tim, after the draft, after a full year of watching him on TV, shaken his hand and smiled and clamped down so hard on his fangs that he'd punctured his own gums. It's a good thing his saliva heals. 

He smiles, a private little thing that Tim sees anyway, catching his eye out of the laughing dogpile by his locker, and God, it turns Buster on to see him blush. It's worth it, all the waiting, not only in college, in the minors, but even once he got called up. Worth it, the months he dragged it out, letting his own want build and crest until it rolled out over the edges of his self, swirled into Tim's dreams. Worth it, all the time he'd had to wait until Molina was gone, and worth it, the weeks spent breathing in Tim's panicked smell from the mound, his dread every time he looked down the sixty feet between them and saw Buster's glove open and waiting for him. Buster had almost caved a dozen times that last month; he hadn't wanted to wait until Tim was ready, until he was wild-haired and hollow-eyed and wondering if the game was done with him, until he jumped with nerves every time Buster came into the room, until the team's losses mounted enough that if they didn't start winning soon, they'd be going home to a long winter. But he had waited, hit the weight room every time he'd been tempted to just go find Tim and take him by the hair, bend him back until all the cords on his neck stood out, and it had been worth it.

Worth it, too, holding off from doing much, even after that first time, until Tim came to him, knocked on his door late at night even though he'd pitched the day before, fixed his eyes on Buster's chest and said, _Want to have a beer_ , and meant, _I want to-- can we--_ and Buster said _Yes_ , and meant just that.

Tonight, he thinks, Tim will come to him again. They haven't done it two nights in a row yet, but it's a special occasion, and it's not like Tim needs to be in top shape for the flight back; all he'll have to do for the next few days is sit, in a plane and in a cable car. And Buster wants it, that rich taste, the wild riot in his veins that's not like it's ever been with anyone else. It's a little dumb, with fucking Sandoval and Casilla looking anxiously at Tim every thirty seconds; he probably shouldn't until the offseason really starts, until those two go away to play winter ball and there won't be anyone trying to find out who he is, although if they haven't figured it out by now Buster thinks he'd have to take Tim in front of half the clubhouse before they got a clue. But still, he promised Hank he'd be careful. He should turn Tim away, later, not answer the door, let him go stew for the rest of the night, for a few more weeks, even, until he's desperate for Buster's touch on his skin, Buster's teeth in his neck. 

He should do that, yeah. But when Tim looks up again, that dull red still in his cheeks, and meets his eyes, Buster knows he won't. He just can't wait, not even one night more.


	5. Tim

_August 31, 2010: San Francisco_

When Posey takes his wrist and leads him out into the alleyway, Tim knows it's not real.

It can't be, because it's just like in his dreams, the ones he hates and waits for at the same time; he's given up thinking a new bed will matter, or an extra side session, or hot tea, or a jay, or calling his dad right before bed, like he was ten, the first time he went away from home, to baseball camp. None of those things have helped; not his pitching, and not the dreams. So now when he goes to bed, the night before a start, he washes his hair and brushes his teeth, and then, although he doesn't know why, he opens the window. And when he sleeps, it's always the same: the bar, the team, and Posey coming after him, no matter what Tim does; whether he sits quietly between Cain and Whiteside in a booth and waits, or whether he tries to run, pushing his way through the crowd, in the end he always turns around and Posey's there, touching him, meeting his eyes, and taking him outside. 

It's crazy, because Posey's just a guy, just a guy on his team, a guy who replaced Bengie, yes, but a guy he has to learn to pitch to if he's going to have a career; he's not asking to star in Tim's dreams, and Tim can't point to anything he's done, in all the months he's known him, that's been anything less than totally pro. He's cool and calm, and he never talks to Tim except to go over the signs, and he's hitting, hitting well enough that team's winning games, though not Tim's games; somewhere deep inside Tim knows that he himself is done, and the crawling feeling inside him when he thinks about getting non-tendered this winter, about having to take what he's made and go home, is worse, by far, than knowing how much he wants this guy who doesn't want him back, except in Tim's dreams.

So it must have finally happened, he must have finally gone out of his mind, because he doesn't remember going to bed -- he remembers the game, congratulating Madison, the sinking feeling in his gut as it really settled in that he'll have to go himself tomorrow, have to take the ball because what other choice does he have, remembers going to the bar even though it wasn't smart because he just couldn't face the evening alone. _Sorry, Rags_ , he thinks, wondering who'll have to take his place, and he laughs, because at least if he's crazy, if the dream's taken him over even awake, at least it'll finally be over.

Posey's hand on his wrist is cold, but there's no reason to fight it; it's not really happening. He tugs Tim through the back room, and right out the back exit. Nobody sees them go.

When they're outside, Posey lets him go, and this is new; Tim leans back against the wall, right by the door, and watches Posey go to the mouth of the alley, look out both ways. When he turns around, he's just a dark shape, the yellow buzzing light of the street framing the black blur of him, but as he comes back towards Tim, his hips, his arms, his face slide into focus, and all Tim wants is to never see him again; all Tim wants is for Posey to do what he always does, to take hold of him, to press him back against the wall, to lean in and -- 

It's disorienting, the way the dream is changing around him; he's used to Posey taking charge, to being unable to move, except to open his mouth to Posey's kiss, his body to Posey's touch. It's unsettling that he can shift against the wall, unsettling when Posey gets close to him and stops, staring at Tim the way he does on the field, the way that Tim never stops thinking about, not anymore. 

"I know how to fix you," Posey says.

Tim's heart stops in his chest, stutters, and starts back up twice as fast, adrenaline rocketing. Oh, God, he wishes that were true, wishes this weren't a dream, wishes Posey really did know what was wrong, with his arm, with his head, with his heart. Now he's staring, too, and maybe -- who knows -- maybe he'll wake up after all, shake it off, maybe this will all burn off him like that mist in Denver.

"How?" he whispers.

Posey's eyes are blue, Tim knows, but out here in the dark they're so black Tim can't even see his pupils, although he looks hard, and keeps looking, and looking, and that's what he's doing when Posey says, "Do you trust me?" 

"Uh, I don't -- I don't know," he manages. He's still looking into Posey's eyes, bottomless and clear.

Posey smiles. His teeth are so white, and it must be a trick of the light, but the ones at the back look so sharp.

"Trust me," he says, and finally he does what Tim's been waiting for, takes a step towards Tim, and leans in.

At first he doesn't do anything, just puts one hand on Tim's chest, right over his heart, firm and careful at once, and one in Tim's hair, pulling at it lightly until Tim tips his head back. His pulse picks up, and his veins thud, and he shuts his eyes. Posey's lips are on his neck, and he can feel Posey's indrawn breath against his skin as he inhales. Then there's a prick, nothing more, as Posey's teeth close delicately in his skin, high up right below his ear, and as his blood starts to flow, he knows he was wrong. _It's real_ , he thinks, the words falling clearly across his mind, as his vision goes black and gold and he fades out for a while. The last thing he knows is Posey's mouth on him. 

*

When he surfaces, the bricks are rough through his thin t-shirt. He's a little cold, or at least he's shivering, but maybe that's not right; maybe he's hot instead, electricity flashing along all his nerve endings, the tips of his fingers digging into the mortar behind him, and it feels like something's opened in his chest, something that's been stuck and locked for months. 

He opens his eyes. Posey's standing just a couple of feet away. He's running his tongue over his lips, but he doesn't look nervous; he looks as warm and satisfied as Tim feels, and his eyes are dark. 

"What," Tim gasps. 

Posey's grin is sharp, and he licks his lips again, steps in and presses his body, solid and firm, against Tim.

"You really need to know?" he says, teeth closing a little, but not completely, on Tim's ear.

Tim's mouth is hanging open a little, and every breath he drags in under the weight of Posey's chest is white and gold. Every muscle feels warm and loose and ready to go, and for the first time in a month he really wants to pitch. He can't remember ever feeling this alive. He thinks about Posey behind the dish tomorrow, _today_ , about Posey, maybe, in his bed, about Posey's teeth sinking into his neck, and he _wants_ \--

"Uh, no," he groans, as Posey's hand finds his cock, and it still sounds shaky, but he can feel every blood cell he has, moving swift and fast through him, warming Posey's cool chest through their t-shirts, and it's true; right now, he doesn't care about anything except that Posey's hand on him is real.


End file.
